The Greatest Fire
by hidden-truths
Summary: Prompted - Heracles has managed to save Prometheus from his eternal torment, but all is not well in the philosopher's mind. How can a man who has endured such torture, return as though it has never happened?


Heracles looked upon the poor man with an unsettling mixture of sorrow and guilt. To think, his own father had subjected this man to this savage fate, and now, he was too late. Prometheus stood on his two feet, fit and healthy in body, but his mind was not as it was.

The once formidable and sharp mind had been reduced to a shadow of its self, Prometheus had locked himself mentally away sometime during his torture. It seems that over the centuries, he had been completely lost, and Heracles doubted his ability to restore him. He felt a flash of anger flicker inside him - how could his father do such a thing? Before now, Heracles had thought of Zeus as nothing less than what he was, a god, but this…

He had nothing but pity for this man. He had seeked to help mankind, and after spending his whole life in the care of humans, Heracles knew he would have done the same thing, even if it meant defying his father. For once in his life he had doubt in the wisdom of the king of all gods, and somewhere even further in him, he felt a flicker of uncertainty. He'd spent his whole life trying to prove his worth to these gods, but, did he really want to join them now? Now he knew what they were capable of?

As he debated himself furiously in his mind, Prometheus had begun to pace, muttering unintelligibly. Heracles' attention shifted to him, sharp eyes following his jittery movements, the twitches, the wringing of his hands. The loss of such a great mind was such a loss, surely something could be done?

It had taken a considerable amount of time to get Prometheus back to the city. He was fragile after the years of agony and mental damage, but Prometheus remembered the years of unenviable existence mankind had suffered. Even after returning fire to the people, it still stood in his mind that it was of his actions that it had first been taken away. The hatred of the people had not, even with the passing millennia, been erased from his degenerated mind.

When Prometheus slept, there was silence. A cold, cutting silence that rang when you came near him, he barely breathed. This was not the case during the daylight hours. When he didn't pace and mutter he began screaming - yelling like a mad man nonsensical things of fire and boxes, of Pandora and sacrifices, of eagles and titans. With the passing days and the constant restraining of this broken man, Heracles felt his twinge of hatred for his father steadily grow into something more, a disgust and loathing that sparked at every glance to Prometheus.

Soon it came to be that Prometheus had to be tied down at all times. His mood swings and rantings had turned dangerous. He had launched himself out the door when he saw a man leading his way past the house with nothing but a torch to defend himself. It seemed odd, Prometheus had not touched the man, he just snatched away his light and left him confused and alone in the dark night.

This was not an isolated event though - if there was so much as a spark of light entering the man's room during the dark hours, he would fight and strain against his restraints to find the flames that gave the glow. Soon, everyone in the house learnt that they must pass the room of Prometheus in shadow if anyone was to get any sleep that night.

Things had gone on this way for some time. Heracles turned his sword to each new evil that faced him. Between rants, a quiet that was few and far between, Prometheus would mutter of things to come - predictions of Heracles' deeds. One by one Termerus, King Amyntor and Lityerses fell beneath his sword, all as predicted by the mad ramblings of Prometheus. Heracles listening to these tellings, as the days passed, he thought of Prometheus' past brilliance, and in these prophecies, there was a glint of hope of bringing back his mind. But there was nothing to do but wait.

Unfortunately, things did not turn out well. Prometheus' mental stability waned further. The predictions stopped, the yelling from his room terrified the women in the house and even the gentle senescent glow of the stars was enough to have Prometheus scream for fire. By now, there was no love left in Heracles' heart for Zeus, he would always respect the god for what he was- a god- but never could he either as a man or a father.

One day, one of the slaves had gone to Prometheus to attempt to have him eat some breakfast, a task that was easier said than done, when he saw that the bed was empty, the bindings had been cut, and Prometheus was gone. Heracles was informed immediately, and within moments he was gone, sword sheathed and mind focused.

It was not difficult to follow the destructive and manic path of Prometheus. Between bewildered civilians complaining of stolen torches and the trail of cindered wood, Heracles quickly caught up with Prometheus.

The scene was not one Heracles expected. There was no ranting, yelling, screaming, pacing, just a broken man slowly pacing towards the edge of a cliff - not huge as far as such things go, but a deadly fall all the same. It was so quiet, it was hard to believe there was really anything wrong with this man, calmly strolling to the jagged precipice, until his toes hung over the edge, rubble rolling over and descending down the drop with no more than a few quiet clunks. The morning sky was a washed pink, the morning had barely begun, the first few rays of the sun barely reaching up over the horizon.

Heracles' soothing words joined the jumpy ramblings of Prometheus - telling him to come back, the edge was dangerous, he was getting too close. It was a strange sight - Heracles was a man of action, he didn't whisper comforting words, he fought, but this broken man had changed the way he thought a lot. One more step over the edge, and a brilliant and valiant mind would be lost.

A long silence.

Prometheus didn't come back, instead, he stood firm, looked to the sunrise. The great flaming ball rose into the sky and still Prometheus stared, stared until the glare burned his eyes, stared until he couldn't even see the great light anymore, blinded, but still staring. Then, he reached out his arms, his hands grasping at this, the greatest fire of them all. He stumbled forward, tears pouring as he desperately tried to reach, blindly clutching at the empty air… then Heracles' cry as he fell.


End file.
